


miles from what we would miss

by estelares



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Growing Up, M/M, i liked quite particular things way back when, there is some long distance chess, vague Becoming Jane crossover in terms of setting, victorian au, why do i always ship pairings who play chess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 14:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5130731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelares/pseuds/estelares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because when Charles lets himself think about it, he wants Erik, wants in a way that he really shouldn’t. Charles wants those long clever fingers, wants kisses like quicksilver and wildfire, wants to mould himself against Erik and re-learn every inch of him, inside and out; wants so badly that it burns straight through him and leaves him breathless.</p><p>Charles doesn’t let his mind wander often.</p>
            </blockquote>





	miles from what we would miss

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello this is a repost from another account i have now deleted because i wanted to have all my works on one pseud and couldn't figure out how to do it otherwise???? 
> 
> i've made a few tweaks just in terms of consistency/grammar/etc but the content remains the same.

It was raining outside Lehnsherr House, the skies dark and heavy, the wind howling and crashing against the long glass windows of the mansion, when ten year old Erik realizes his dog had gone missing.

‘Gunther?’ he calls out, peering down the hallways and corridors. It was very unlike their large family dog to suddenly disappear, especially during a heavy storm. Gunther, like most animals, hated lightning and would often snuffle pathetically into Erik’s side, trying to hide underneath him – an impossible task, as Gunther was definitely no small dog. It always made Erik laugh.

He hears a distant barking from outside, and fumbles with the window latch. ‘Gunther? Gunther, what are you doing out there?’

Erik wrestles the heavy shutters open with great difficulty and winces at the pouring rain.  _Mama would kill him if he got his shirt wet._  ‘Bad dog!’ he admonishes authoritatively, echoing his father’s tones. ‘Come here.’

Gunther, who would usually come at the slightest summon, only barked louder and retreated further into the forest by their estate. It was wet, freezing cold and dark – all things that Erik knows his dog hated.

Maybe he had found something.

 _Mama would have a fit if Gunther dragged in another dead hare. That would be the third time this month._  


At the thought of the groundings both he and the dog would receive in response to more dead wildlife that was very possibly much larger than a hare or two, Erik groaned and clambers out of the window in the west wing, right into the sheeting rain.

He trudges towards the woods, his hair already sticking to his face and brand new shirt soaked through. ‘Gunther, please come back, we’re going to be in so much  _trouble_  –’

The barking only gets louder.

After slipping on patches of mud and catching his feet on roots, he finally climbs around the large oak tree and locates Gunther, ears sticking to his head and black tail dripping with rainwater.

Huffing and disgruntled, he puts his hands on his hips and glares at his dog, who was still paying him no attention, barking incessantly at a particularly leafy bush. ‘Bad,  _bad_  boy, Gunther, mother is going to –’

He stops when he spots a scrap of white between the branches.

‘Huh?’

Impending grounding forgotten, Erik crawls over and crouches next to the patch of leaves, peering in.

Large, surprised blue eyes blink back at him. Deathly pale, mud-streaked shirt, barefoot and visibly shaken, the boy gazes wordlessly at Erik, huddled and small against the dark brown earth, branches tangled in his matted hair.

_How long had he been out here?_

‘Hey,’ Erik whispered cautiously, taking in the boy’s violent shivering and trying to remember when the heavy rain started. It had been a while, and even Erik knows the winter night is anything but forgiving.

The boy flinches when Erik shifts closer, shrinking away as if expecting a blow, eyes wide and frightened.

‘Hey, no, it’s okay,’ he ventures again, and tries remember how to be reassuring; like the stable-hands he used to watch, soft voices and gentle touches calming the spooked horses.

Erik reaches out once more, because he can feel the cold seeping into his bones already and he really doubts the boy can survive the night alone. ‘It’s alright now, you’re safe, we’re - _I’m_  - going to take you home and we shall get you warm and dry soon – so come here, come on.’

Blue irises that might have been bright and lively if it were not so bitterly cold assess him, almost curiously.

And then, hesitantly, a smaller, paler hand slips into his and it is Erik who almost cringed this time, his worry spiking for this pale drenched lost boy with skinny wrists and no strength in his arms.

With Gunther yapping in his wake and rainwater trickling down his neck, Erik slowly coaxes him out and proceeds to stand up in one fluid motion, scooping the boy up by the crook of his knees.

‘Shh,’ he says encouragingly when panicked blue eyes fix themselves on his face. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

Erik carries him out past the muddy slopes and snarling roots, out of the dark rows of trees and all the way inside while the rain sheets down because young master Erik had always been too tall for a ten-year-old and the boy is thin, too thin, the freezing water trickling down his frame and soaking Erik’s shirt even further.

He must have looked a sight when he reappeared in front of their mansion door dripping mud and water on the polished hardwood floors with an overexcited German shepherd barking at his heels. His mother’s sharp rebuke died on the tip of her tongue when she realised what Erik had held so gingerly in his arms, like the most precious cargo.

‘Can we keep him, oh mama  _please_ I promise I’ll be good from now on  _I promise_ —’

She takes in the startling blue eyes, the dark curls matted to a small, pale face; shivering and shaking, barely conscious and probably dead by dawn if Erik didn’t find him in time.

Marquise Lehnsherr looks at her sodden, quiet little son who was talking at the speed of light, words falling over each other, anxious, sombre and so hopeful it would be too difficult to say anything other than –

‘Yes,’ she murmurs, eyes soft and hands gentle on the boy, careful as she steps forward to take him from Erik, hiding her wince when the boy was much, much lighter than she expected.

‘Yes, of course we will, my love.’

—

 _His name is Charles, and that’s about all he remembers when he comes around the next morning, warm and safe in the Lehnsherr household – but that’s okay, Erik had insisted eagerly; that’s okay, you can stay with us, I can show you my room and maybe you can share with me or mother can arrange something, and look, you’ve already met Gunther, and our house is big enough for you and we don’t mind, really, father and mother and me, isn’t that right, mama? You’re going to be just fine._    


—

A rolled up piece of paper hits the left side of Charles’ head, but when he looks up from his book with eyes narrowed, there was no one in sight.

‘Erik, _’_  he sighs.

Although silence was the only response, he swears he could hear Erik’s smirk.

Charles sets the heavy book down with a resigned air, shaking out his limbs as he pushes his chair back. ‘I know you’re here,’ he mutters under his breath.

He can’t be far away; Erik’s always had good aim, but it has not transcended to teleportation just yet.

Charles stretches, glancing around the library. He had filled out, stretched and grown in the ten years he had lived with the Lehnsherrs; shooting up like weeds overnight, as Marquise Lehnsherr would say affectionately, ruffling his hair.

He had been awkward, supremely awkward for the first few months; shy and hesitant like a small, injured animal, unsure where to put his feet. Unsure of where to go, where to start. It would have naturally come with his loss of memory; this wordless, timid air of someone had survived a near death experience and was unsure of how to react to the fact that he did not actually die. Charles found his voice eventually with much encouragement on Erik’s part, the boy trying his damndest to coax the frightened edge out of Charles’ shoulders; trying anything to bring out a smile.

Both boys had missed the way Erik’s parents glanced at each other in surprise when their quiet, serious son would intentionally stumble and fool around comically so a puff of soft laughter could be startled out of Charles; even more surprised when Charles opens up more and more in response, lighting up around his new best friend.

Still, as they got older, the quieter, thoughtful Charles would always feel like he was intruding, that he did not deserve to be welcomed with such ease into this family, much to Erik’s chagrin. There was always a hint of uncertainty in his eyes and the way he chews at his bottom lip – like he was wondering what he had done to merit such a reward, wondering why such fortune had befallen him, as if even after ten years he can’t quite believe that they don’t mind him there, that they might in fact actually  _want_  him, even if he wasn’t theirs.

‘Don’t be thick, Charles,’ Erik had whispered when he figured it out, fierce affection filtering through his voice. ‘You’re as good as family. Don’t you dare think otherwise.’

(Marquis Lehnsherr had once complained good-naturedly about having to buy twice the amount of food and clothing lest the two growing boys start devouring furniture and there was such a flicker of sharp guilt in Charles’ eyes and the almost stricken sort of silence that fell afterwards prompted the subject to be never brought up again.)

He turns around, and spots a flash of blonde hair behind a bookcase in his peripheral vision.

 _‘Erik,’_  he tries for exasperation, but doesn’t quite get there.

With a swivel and a slight half-turn, Erik’s thin frame comes into view in a rustle of fabric, arms crossed innocently over his chest. ‘Charles,’ he replies in his politest tone, green-grey eyes dancing.

Like Charles, Erik definitely could no longer hold any pretense of the gawky teenager caught between man and boy, made out by the lean, athletic lines and a sharp, searching gaze. It had irked Charles that Erik had always been taller – will always be taller, Erik constantly teased – but the fact that Charles can still outrun him by miles and Erik’s subsequent annoyance at that was a good enough compromise.

Bathed in sunlight, Erik could almost be mistaken for having good intentions; crisp white shirt, new breeches, no doubt - shoulders relaxed and ankles crossed, leaning against a shelf. But Charles had not grown up with him for nothing.

‘Are you really so bored out of your mind that you cannot bear to even let me finish this passage?’

With a hint of a smile, Erik lifts his eyebrows. ‘Why, by all means, Charles!’ A graceful hand was waved in the general direction of his book. ‘I would do nothing to ah, impede your undoubtedly fascinating read.’

Erik Lehnsherr could sweet-talk all the scullery maids into bringing them cake in the middle of the night and charm his way out of extra Arithmacy tutoring effortlessly, but Charles was having none of it.

‘Out with it,’ he demands, pushing out his chair to face Erik fully. ‘I know that face of yours, my friend, and it is definitely not a let-us-sit-down-and-read-quietly face – in fact, most of the time situations that begin with that face of yours has usually ended with a copious amount of mud, various scraped limbs and ruined articles of clothing, usually those of the trouser variety. So please do enlighten me on the shenanigans I am to partake in on this lovely day, if you don’t mind?’

A wide, mischievous grin spreads on Erik’s face as he attempts to look wounded.

 _‘Charles,_ ’ he draws out in feigned outrage. ‘Surely I ought to deserve a little more good faith on your part?’

 

He gives in when Charles crosses his own arms and raises an eyebrow.

 

Holding his hands out defensively, he grins – a flash of sharp, white teeth. ‘Alright,  _alright_.’

In one sweeping movement a chair is swiveled backwards and Charles finds himself under the amused scrutiny sea-green eyes, suddenly in close proximity. Erik peers at him from the backrest of the chair and ducks, laughing when Charles swats at him with a stack of paper.

‘I saw the stable-hands bring in the saddles Father ordered a few months ago, and-’

Charles blinks.

‘…Saddles? But what would you possibly – oh,  _oh no_ , no Erik, I  _will_  not, I absolutely refuse-’

He enjoys many things in life, Charles does, but agility, athletic stamina and co-ordination were not his strong points, especially not while he might be astride a large, unpredictable, four-legged animal.

‘But Charles! Come on, don’t be such a bore, it will be brilliant, I’ve always wanted to,  _please_  –’ Erik drags his chair even closer, wide earnest eyes and putting on his most charming, pleading voice.

He was met with silence and a very put-upon glare, as Charles shakes his head and runs a hand over his face.

Unfortunately, Erik knows a victory when he sees one, and was already on his feet with excitement blazing in his eyes, dragging Charles towards the door.

‘If I go with you,’ Charles says slowly in an attempt to instil at least a fraction of guilt into Erik – which had never and will never impart much effect. ‘You must grant me my next request.’

Charles is not one for irresponsible, reckless demands – not like Erik – so he agrees, albeit hesitantly.

‘Chess.’

Erik twists his head around and eyes him with slight incomprehension, as if to say  _oh, is that it?_

Charles slants him a grin.

It so happens that Charles had uncovered an antique chess set – laboriously hand carved, no doubt – just a few days ago when the sunlight had caught his eye when it glanced off a glass door in an alcove that he and Erik had never investigated before. In a distant corner of the mansion and covered in a stubborn layer of dust, it appeared that perhaps the household had forgotten they even owned such a beautiful piece of workmanship.

Charles had been contemplating how to persuade the flighty, easily distracted Erik to sit down for a few hours for just one game - and now the opportunity seemed to present itself, at the cost of impending bruises, cuts and numerous near death experiences.

For someone that had grown up with the frequent promise of adrenaline-fueled risk behind a reckless smile and blue-grey-green eyes, it seemed like a fair tradeoff.

\--

 

Riding boots in one hand and a hat in another, Erik cheerfully links an arm through Charles’ and walks them both past the main hallway, when a voice calls out for them.

‘Ah, Erik, Charles! What excellent timing – do join me in welcoming our most honourable guest and old friend,’ Marquise Lehnsherr smiles encouragingly, nodding at a man half-obscured by the doorframe.

‘But  _mother,’_  If Charles didn’t know better, Erik was actually whining in impatience, almost pouting in dissatisfaction. ‘The horses are ready and you  _said_  we could –’

Laughingly, she beckons again and Charles comes, a reluctant Erik at his side. His mother slants a look in Erik’s direction. _Behave._

‘Hush, son, this will only be for a second.’

She gestures at the tall, brown-haired man, who had also risen from his seat.

‘Duke Alexander, meet my boys – they had been out last time you had visited. Do excuse us; they’re awfully looking forward to horse-riding…at least, Erik is.’

Charles flushes happily at being introduced in such a way, beaming as he offers a quiet welcome; Erik, who had belatedly remembered his manners, inclines his head respectfully.

The man smiles amiably, laughing openly at Erik’s suppressed impatience. ‘Oh, heavens, I would hate to stand in the way of your adventures!’ He shakes his head good-naturedly at Marquise Lehnsherr as if to say  _ah, boys these days_. He extends his hand in greeting.

‘It’s a pleasure indeed. My name is Alexander Xavier. Young man, you must be Erik.’

When he turns to take Charles’ hand, however, the Duke gasps in shock, choking on his words and grips Charles so hard he yelps in surprised pain – Erik makes a move towards him unconsciously, wariness flaring in his expression.

Also concerned that the Duke seemed to be frozen where he stood, gaping at an increasingly frightened Charles, Erik’s mother puts a gentle hand on Duke Xavier, softly inquiring what was of the matter.

Appearing to come to his senses, the visiting Duke drops Charles’ hand as if he were on fire, words pouring forth in a confused garbled stream, gesticulating wildly as he attempted to explain himself.

‘Pardon me, but your  _eyes,’_  He motions at Charles, hands trembling slightly. ‘…they remind me terribly of someone: of my sister, in fact. Her eyes were that exact, startling shade of blue, see. She had died a few years back and I, I do miss her dreadfully. Times have been…difficult for our family.’

He apologises profusely, still evidently shaken by the experience. Strangely, his eyes would not leave Charles’, and to Charles’ faint amusement, he feels Erik bristle in response, standing close by his side.

Shortly after, Marquise Lehnsherr sends the two boys on their way, closing the doors firmly behind her.

\--

As promised, a good part of the day spent cantering by the lakeside and getting scrapes from low-hanging tree branches; Charles fumbling with the reins and stirrups more than he actually needed to, in order to provoke a reaction from Erik, who was acting strangely quiet and subdued.

 _I feel like something bad is going to happen, Charles, I don’t like the way the man looked at you._    


Too relaxed to worry, Charles had laughed him off, the sunshine and cool breeze lifting his hair up, tickling his nose. A suitable distraction was then promptly provided when Charles  _finally_ slips unintentionally and falls off his horse with an undignified shriek.

Later, despite feeling bruised and battered with a heightened reluctance for horse-riding, Charles was grateful that the crease between Erik’s brows had faded and they had laughed, dirty, sun-warmed and worn out; safe and home.

\--

 

_‘Master Erik and Master Charles’ presences are required as soon as possible in the drawing room.’_

The pageboy bows on his way out after leading the two mystified boys into the room where they had been summoned, closing the ornate doors with a quiet click.

By the fireplace, the Duke struck a very stately figure, his voice booming and slightly awkward in the echoes of strange silence.

‘This might sound very bizarre, young man, but I do believe…that, well, I am your uncle. Which of course, makes you our lost Charles Xavier!’

Charles blinks slowly, as if processing this with great difficulty or wondering if this had been some elaborate set-up.

‘Please, do sit down. We will explain.’ Marquis Lehnsherr motions towards the nearest settee. Erik lingers closely by Charles, the very embodiment of wary suspicion.

If he were a woman, Erik reckons the Duke would have wrung his hands this very moment.

‘My – our family had a feud with another some ten years back: some trivial, meaningless silly little fight that amounted to such intense boiling hatred…’ Duke Alexander sighs heavily at the memory. ‘…and as some sort of twisted retribution, they hired a man to kidnap our only child and magic him away, presumably out of the country.’

Erik’s mouth is a thin line, his eyes slightly narrowed. Charles elbows him discreetly.

‘Of course there was no proof, but there could be no other way, you see – sole heirs to dukedoms do not simply  _vanish_  from their living quarters.’

‘Your mother – bless her soul – died of grief and consumption a few years ago; she had never been a strong woman, especially after the loss of her husband.’

Perhaps Charles would have felt more of a sense of sorrow and loss had he known his mother. But as he did not, he took less note of the Duke’s speech and more attention to the way Erik looked like he was ready to grab Charles by the wrist and just  _bolt_.

‘We, we thought you dead, Charles – taken from us forever. The Xavier house would have gone to ruins and oh, how we despaired! I thought I had lost my mind today, when…there you were, with your mother’s eyes and your father’s hair, safe and sound and right in front of me! From what Marquise Astrid says of how you were found, you must have escaped, my clever nephew! You must have your father’s cunning after all…truly a Xavier…’

Now standing, Duke Alexander clasps Marquis Lehnsherr’s hand gratefully.

‘I cannot thank you enough for looking after our boy for all these years. We are forever indebted to you and your family.’

He turns to Charles with a warm, expectant smile.

‘We’ll set off come sundown, no? Surely you must be anxious to return home, you have so much to learn-’

This time, it was not only Erik whose shoulders stiffened. Charles freezes, an icy cold feeling of dread solidifying his blood.

Marquis Lehnsherr’s eyes flicker in understanding. He rises and takes the Duke by his arm in friendly camaraderie.  

‘Let us retire for a few moments, old friend. Today has proved to be very taxing for us all. I will send for some refreshments – I recall I may still have your favourite beer in the cellar – German, yes, the very best, of course…’

Their conversation fades as they leave, several maids scurrying in their wake.

Marquise Lehnsherr was the last adult left in the room, stopping to lean in and kiss Charles tenderly on his forehead.

‘If you didn’t know already, I have always considered you as my son, and I always will.’

Her tone was soaked with warm affection as she runs a hand through Charles’ hair, whispering something in his ear that makes his expression change with a flicker of panic. She hugs him tightly, pressing another kiss into his hair before departing.

Charles was silent as they walked back to his rooms, eyes rimmed with the slightest red.

Almost numbly, Erik follows him inside, embers of a fierce, protective feeling beginning to spark.

‘She told me she already had my things packed. I have half an hour at most – night will fall soon, and we need to -’

Charles sounds a little strangled as he looks for a place to put his hands, but could not quite find one. The sun is low on the horizon, throwing shadows through gaps in the trees.

‘So? Are you just going to  _go_?’ Irrational anger –  _no, please don’t tell me you actually want to leave_  – spikes in Erik’s voice and makes him feel unsteady.

Helpless blue eyes blink at him, soaking in the approaching dusk. ‘…What else can I do?’

 _You can stay here,_ Erik wants to say. _Stay here like you always have, like I always thought you would. I found you, you’re safe because of us, you’re safe here because of me, I –_

Misreading Erik’s silence completely – something he has never done before – Charles starts to speak shakily. ‘You don’t have to pity me anymore, I have a place to go now, I…have a family, I have my own estate...’

Something twists like white, burning metal.

‘You say that like you never had one.’ Erik all but spat out. The feeling snarls and claws inside him, demanding and angry. ‘Do we mean so little?’

Charles sighs, like he isn’t quite sure what Erik wants from him. Like he isn’t sure what he wants from himself.

‘I never said that.’ He bites his lip. ‘I have always appreciated your…hospitality, Erik. Make no mistake of that. I am aware - I was just a vagrant, left out in the cold to die, and you-’

 That stings and Erik cannot fathom why.

‘Charles, stop it,’ he almost barks, voice grating and harsh. He doesn’t understand what this feeling wants from him, doesn’t know why he wants to lock every single door and window in the house and just, just hold Charles where he is, right here and now.

‘That’s because we cared about you, because you  _are_  family -’ Erik’s voice was broken in all the wrong places and a monster snarls inside him, fierce and slightly bewildered.

 

‘But you’re not- we’re not family, Erik, and that’s the truth – and I have to, have to go, didn’t you hear? I…have responsibilities and a family of my own to look after – ’

‘Oh, and that makes you feel special now?’ Erik snaps out, lashing out at things he doesn’t understand. He regrets it as soon as it is said - but not enough to stop. ‘…That you’re so high and mighty, you can just leave-’

‘Are you trying to make this harder?’ Charles snaps right back, sharp and raw as he looks away. ‘You of all people should know it can’t be helped –’

Erik recoils at the accusatory tone, the hurt blue eyes. ‘No, I –’ 

 

_I just thought I could keep you._

 

But he can’t say that because that’s selfish, Charles is not his property and Erik knows better; Erik wants Charles to be happy, he wants Charles to stop with the feelings of inadequacy, wants Charles to feel like he  _belongs._

And so he says nothing, letting the words die before they reach his tongue – even if Charles might have stared at him with something akin to disappointment.

Shaking his head after a moment, Charles begins to walk towards the hallway.

Erik can’t seem to will his feet to move.

Charles turns back for one last time, his eyes catching the firelight, dark and unreadable.

‘I had hoped that...’ His voice contained no trace of venom. That alone evaporates the violently angry red haze within Erik, leaves him empty; wordlessly, helplessly empty.

Charles pauses for a heartbeat, and seems to change his mind – deflates a bit, even. ‘Ah, forget it.’ He sounds hollow.

The door swings shut; footsteps fade.

Erik watches as men load boxes and leather cases into the horse carriage waiting outside, the sunset painting the sky a vivid purple-red, and falls asleep by the window of his bedroom, the cantering of hooves and a slamming door echoing in his head.

He pretends not to care.

\--

(Rattling away in the plush backseat of the horse-carriage, Charles Xavier turns and cranes his head, peering out of the small window at the Lehnsherr estate, the only home he had ever known; looks for a familiar face behind the open shutters, but finds none.)

\--

The glass is cold where it meets his fingertips.

Erik Lehnsherr has spent approximately three days hiding in the deserted wings of their estate, frustrated and angry and perplexed at himself, at how fast things had happened; perplexed at the rift that feels as if it were splitting him into halves from the inside.

Fortunately, his parents knew better than to disturb him – ‘the poor boy looks like he lost a _limb,_  Astrid,’ Marquis Lehnsherr had sighed to his wife – only sending food at mealtimes and tasking a servant with the job of keeping a close watch on their son’s movements, lest he attempts something idiotic and drastic, without a voice of reason to hold him back.

Erik presses his head against the windowpane and breathes against the sky, a soft cloudless windswept sort of blue that would have had him kicking at the ground impatiently, itching to drag Charles out for a game of – of anything, really, anything to get out of the house.

His eyes follow the trail of hoof-prints and carriage wheels on the road out of their estate that the rain and wind had yet to have erased – the wheels upon which – ah, he doesn’t want to think about that just yet, it still twists too sharply in his ribs.

Today would have been nice. Charles would have liked today, liked the way the blue sky seems to beckon them forwards, daring them to outrun the wind and the cold with the promise of snow later that night. Charles would smile at him with his summer sky eyes with a ‘not now, Erik,’ – and he would have done anything, everything to keep it that way.

Charles reminds him of summer. Reminds him of the beads of condensation that form on the tall glasses of lemonade they both sipped, lying in dappled shade and flicking water at each other; of swimming in the lake by the forest despite his mother’s warnings about catching both of their deaths at the rate they’re going, you mark her words. Charles had to be pushed in the first time, yelping with wide blue eyes and flailing arms because  _Charles didn’t know how to swim_  and god forbid if Erik let that continue for a moment longer. He had stood contemplatively at the shoreline, curiously toeing the rippling water with a perplexed expression on his face and summer wind in his hair when Erik sneaks up and just _pounces._ Charles had screamed then, screamed like a  _little girl,_  something that he seemed to be quite set on denying even as he clutched at Erik in half-indignant bewilderment because his feet couldn’t quite touch the sandy bottom and the water was cold, damn it Erik, why did you do that –

But Charles reminds him of winter too, of the heap of dry cinder they dumped in the fireplace and choking, inexperienced and clumsy, on the explosion of smoke that followed - Charles falling to the floor in helpless laughter because Erik had singed his eyebrows and it was just  _so funny, oh god I can’t breathe, help_  and Charles had been such a sight that Erik couldn’t help smiling either, even if his hair was still sort of covered in soot and they were in a lot of trouble. Charles reminds him of snowball fights, rosy cheeks and red noses bundled up and layered with scarves and coats and hats and trudging back home, breathless and dripping with melting slush; Charles reminds him of cold dark rainy nights when he can hear the wind howling through the trees and endless, persistent rain because that’s how Erik found him, so very long ago.

Erik leans back from the window, staring blankly at his hands, chest feeling too-tight.

Oh, to hell with it.

Charles reminds him of everything –

…or is it the other way around?

He had been dimly aware that maybe what he felt about Charles was a little more than  _platonic,_  that the insistently strange twist of heat when Charles glances at him sleepily, tousled and sun-touched with sky blue eyes isn’t completely…normal, for lack of a better word. He had been aware for some time, but it had always been a little subconscious nudge, a feather of a touch that he could ignore if he wished and aim another paper aeroplane at Charles’ forehead instead.

But the problem is, Charles isn’t there for him to throw things at or to make a funny quip so he can forget the way he seems to always run out of air when the sunlight catches itself on Charles’ unruly mop of hair and slips down the slope of his shoulders, falling in pieces of gold and amber around them. Charles isn’t here to snap him out of his thoughts, thoughts that linger on the corners of the pretty pink-red curve of Charles’ mouth and thoughts that reach out in sly fingers to flit along the line of his jaw and the dips of pale collarbones.  

And for all the good that Charles’ recent absence is doing - instead of fading away, it surges up stronger and faster, like ocean waves against jagged cliffs. The feeling winds a burning curl of heat inside him, winds him up with the need to touch, to  _press,_ to see how many different ways in which he could, if he could, if he was allowed–

Charles really has a distractingly red mouth. One that Erik has unfortunately committed to memory - red like candied apples, a red that’s almost painted in the afternoon glow; red like the brightest autumn leaves. Tracing the line of a lower lip with his mind’s eye, Erik wonders whether or not they would be pliant and soft under his fingertips, whether they would have parted under his touch should he have reached out, leaned in and –

He wonders what Charles would look like, well-kissed and dazed, breath coming out in stuttered gasps under his hands. The way stunned blue eyes would cloud over in an exhaled moan, following Erik’s face as he leans forward, arching up for  _more,_  long fingers threading in his hair, impatient and tugging insistently on buttoned shirts.

Erik thinks about the sweep of dark eyelashes, thinks about carding his fingers through soft tousled umber hair, thinks about being close enough to shift just a fraction closer, to fit their mouths together as if sharing a secret, to feel the kiss open up, to feel –

…Charles shoving him away with a frightened yelp, accusing eyes and a trust he would never, ever be able to regain.

A cold, sickening drop and Erik feels like his stomach has connected with the floorboards at the very thought.

Because obviously, being the well-balanced, logical, rational person that Charles is, he would most likely never see Erik in  _that_  kind of light and Erik knows better than to hope, he really does. But he can’t help it, oh god, especially not when Charles always sits-stands-walks closer than strictly necessary all the damn time because apparently personal space is a not a valid concept – always, especially in winter, stretching like a sleepy cat and insisting on lying on top of Erik because  _I’m cold and you are a living furnace, my friend_  and it’s just not fair that Charles gets to fall asleep, book in hand, nestled on top of Erik on a sofa and Erik is not allowed to touch and instead has to sit there and prod Charles awake, breathing in the soft soapy, washed cotton scent of his hair and will his fingers to stay put.

He thinks about maybe writing to Charles, but that would mean acknowledging Charles had gone, permanently – and he can’t quite bring himself to do that, just yet. Besides, would he even reply? No doubt Charles would be too busy, swept up in re-settling into the life that was rightfully his, confused and lost no longer. Perhaps Charles is happier, that way.

Something tells him that’s not entirely true though, that it can’t be. Otherwise Charles would not have lingered by the door on that last day with that torn expression on his face, like there was something important in the half-complete sentence he didn’t say, held off out of anger, frustrated helpless anger that had been directed at Erik, both boys smarting from sharp words and confused hurt and pride that refused to back down.

Charles had left then, left without another word, his life in suitcases stacked on a horse carriage and Erik did not look back out that window until they had long gone.

He wonders if Charles had forgiven him enough to deign in written correspondence.

(This is how he had come to the realisation that, not only had he been quite slow on the uptake and a complete prat, Erik Lehnsherr was also in a hell lot of trouble.)

\--

Two days, four rest stops and five river crossings away in the upper corridors of a familiar-but-not estate with endless hallways and marble arches, Charles Xavier yelps in pain when he accidentally drops an encyclopaedia on his foot.

Cringing sheepishly, a  _shut up, Erik_  starts to take shape inside his mouth as he scoops the fallen book back into his arms and looks around for the wry curve of a smile and half-hidden bark of laughter that was bound to be right behind his shoulder.

Except –

The corridor is deserted and silent, sunlight falling through the wide strips of windowpanes and catching the swirls of dust in the air.

Of course he’s not there.

This is the sweepingly imposing Xavier House in all its grandeur, with red velvet curtains and polished spiralling staircases, flooded with empty silence.

 _So boring,_  he hears a snide, faintly amused voice beside his ear.

He picks up his pace, resolving to remove himself from the present situation before someone walks into him starting arguments with an imaginary voice in his head.

(If Charles didn’t know better, he’d say he was going barking mad.)

 _Took you a while_ , shadow-Erik comments dryly, the words echoing in his mind much more than it should have.

 

‘Stop it,’ Charles finally hisses under his breath, distractedly running a hand through his hair. ‘I really  _am_  losing my mind.’

 

The silence is the only thing that answers him here – with, well, more silence.

\--

If Charles could describe his new residence in one word and one word only, there would probably be none other more appropriate than silent.

A cold, formal sort of silent, too; taciturn. None of the warm, comfortable and familiar quiet Charles was used to, but a rigid stiffness that both suffocates and isolates. Understandable, since the vast estate was only occupied by Duke Alexander and his wife, Charles’ aunt. The rest of his relatives were either married off, travelling, in royal courts of foreign countries or dead, he was told. It was up to him to amuse himself between lessons and to quickly ‘settle in’ to his rightful home, as the Duke and Duchess were both ‘very, very busy.’

The hush washes over him, follows him around and tugs at his fingertips.

He can’t quite believe it, but Charles had actually forgotten what true silence even sounds like; forgotten it around ten years ago when another boy with eyes like sea-cut glass and a loping gait picked him up from the mud and carried him home in the rain.

It is truly a peculiar phenomenon that one does not appreciate the role another plays in their life until circumstances were forced to change. Charles only realises then that so much of his everyday life was spent alongside Erik, reacting to him, scolding him, laughing and talking to him that with this sudden absence Charles seems to be at a loss for what to actually do with himself.

But of course this is not to say that Charles hadn’t attempted to ‘settle in’, as the Duke calls it; he had made himself known to the staff and household at the Xavier mansion, and even befriended a young man around his age named Hank McCoy, who appears to be an errand-boy – very efficient and thoughtful, with intense blue eyes and eyebrows that seem to be permanently fixed in a half-stern, half-startled sort of position.

So Charles was not lonely, not in the strictest of terms. He had company, and would even go as far as to say that he found the general household quite charming indeed.

There was just a problem of the inexplicable emptiness that seems to haunt him; a silence that chases him wherever he goes and pulls at his consciousness insistently. He can’t quite fight the feeling of a phantom presence by his side, a calculatingly sharp smile and twinkling eyes peering over his shoulder. Charles wants to reach out and find solid, reassuring warmth behind a crinkled white cotton shirt, even if he knows all too clearly that all he will grab onto would be air, light and dust.

He misses Erik. Charles is neither stupid nor arrogant enough to try and convince himself otherwise. He misses the companionable silences (though now he knows to call it silence would be an outright lie); misses the mumbles of the other half of his sentences where there is now empty nothing, misses the precious few moments when he could find quiet and stillness before Erik catches him again (apparently deeming it an insult to his character if Charles had enough leisure to finish a book in one sitting) and drags him outside. For all the tranquillity and peace Charles has now, all to himself, he realises that he would much rather have grass stains on his knees and branches tangled in his hair, breathless with laughter and running too far, too fast. He even misses their dog. Their dog, good old overenthusiastic Gunther, who had died years ago due to old age, well loved and cared for. He misses the noisy cawing of crows in the forest near the Lensherr estate; misses Erik prodding him awake at six in the morning like he never thought he would, misses the flash of blonde hair at the corner of his eye, misses the easy, wordless way of communicating that they always had – and perhaps most of all Charles misses the fact that Erik would always know where he was.

Now that there is no one to use as a headrest on rainy grey days, no one to roll his eyes at when a visitor says something incredibly unintelligent and no one to flick water at or to scold reproachfully for throwing paper aeroplanes at his head, a strange hollowness unfurls.

There is a fierce ache whenever he thinks of Erik, burning uncomfortably as it scrabbles at his throat –

This yawning chasm, this strange, bewildering set of feelings that had been growing inside Charles ever since he had left the Lehnsherr estate was beginning to force him to question in what light did he really hold Erik Lehnsherr, after all these years.

Erik is a very dear person to him; there is no doubt about that.

In fact, Charles values his opinion very highly - something which he obviously has not told Erik for the simple reason that it would probably only serve inflate his head and encourage him to lure Charles out for more reckless things.

Charles had always thought that his feelings of affection for Erik were those of a brotherly camaraderie – or something along those lines, anyway. He reaches out only because he could, strays closer than what was probably considered normal because Erik  _lets_  him. He gets carried away because he can’t help it. At the best of times Charles just sort of falls into Erik, mostly because he’s  _there_ ; because it’s all too easy.

He’s never thought about it too much before.

Really, he’s never  _done_  a lot of thinking when it comes to Erik – it’s all been instinctive the result of knowing someone for too long, perhaps; fluent in their own language that requires no words. Charles gravitates towards Erik’s presence almost unconsciously, leans into him reflexively when they’re sitting-standing-walking, always within touching distance. Because as much as he’d deny it, Charles is uneasy with suffocating, blanket silences, especially when he is alone. He only prefers solitude in the Lehnsherr estate because he has the knowledge that he would soon be found, and somehow stolen moments of quiet allows Charles to pretend that silence was controllable, that he could hold it in his hands and tuck it between pages of books.

Charles hates being alone more than anything else, and perhaps that makes it easier for him to fall into Erik, to mould his life and habits to accommodate the other – so that now there are inconveniently permanent hollows and gaps when he is gone.

He does suppose, though, it is not entirely ‘brotherly’ to think about kissing Erik. In the quiet sunlight of his library, outside standing under dappled green shade, against the back of a door and swathed in darkness.

He groans and presses his palms to his temples before that train of thought gets the better of him, and wondering when his life had gotten to this stage.

But the truth is, even if he might have been helplessly unaware or vehemently in denial, it does not make it any less undeniable: Charles is drawn inextricably to Erik’s strange magnetism. Drawn in by his change-colour eyes and sun-flecked hair; drawn in like cold fingers are drawn towards a fireplace, or fluttering moths towards the slightest flicker of candlelight.

Sometimes he thinks that Erik might feel the same way about him – as childish as it sounds – but the odds don’t seem to be high.

Erik was always warm, too warm for it to be normal, really - and Charles is being underhanded but he takes what he can get, sprawled on top of a disgruntled Erik with a book and the bitter winter as an excuse, feeling the heat soak through his clothing and drawing him to sleep. He knows it annoys Erik; that Erik doesn’t like it – because he’s always prodded awake rather sharply at some point, the irritated tone that Erik uses to admonish him about doing octopus impressions and being too heavy sending fragments of doubt and guilt scattering through him, prompting him to scramble up quickly with a half-apology that he’s never actually meant. Because even if Charles might not be able to  _have_ , he was still able to hope, to guess, to  _try._

He wonders what Erik would think; how he would react. Chances are, Erik would think he was joking. A spectacular practical joke, the best that he had seen – and the worst thing is Erik would genuinely laugh, and then Charles would have to pretend that he’d been planning it all along, that it was just so funny and clever of him – he doesn’t think he’s prepared to put himself through that just yet.

Shaking his head at his own hopelessness, Charles takes a precursory glance around his still-unfamiliar room, gaze falling on the only package he had not yet opened, still wrapped and bound neatly in twine by his bedside table.

Walking over, he gingerly lifts it up, feeling the heavy, carved lines of the wooden board with his fingertips.

He had taken the chessboard secretively, almost as an afterthought – no, accidentally, Charles firmly tells himself.

He took the chessboard, yes, but accidentally or not it doesn’t matter anyway, because Erik doesn’t care. Erik won’t notice, because Erik’s never even liked chess. It was Charles who had prodded and wheedled and cajoled him into letting himself be taught the complicated rules of a chess game and rudimentary playing strategies. Erik had fixed the most long-suffering, reluctant stare he could muster onto Charles throughout the whole of this let’s-teach-Erik-a-game-that-involves-staying-still venture, much to Charles’ amusement.

Despite all that, they had never finished a single game, since Erik could be just as persuasive as Charles – even more so, when needed – and before he knows it Charles finds himself compromising for the umpteenth time for a ‘let’s do this later, please?’ and if no lessons got in the way they would soon be doing things that wore ragged holes into Charles’ shoes and thread his shirt with twigs.

Charles wonders whether Erik would still be interested in a chess game, given the present circumstances. Interested in this curious little venture of his – a peace offering, an invitation to start again.

He wagers that a letter won’t do much good, since Erik was probably still hurt and irritated at him, sulking by himself somewhere unseen and either about to attempt something rash or seriously worry his parents. Perhaps both. As for Charles, his own frustration had worn off long ago, vanished like a puff of smoke in the wind the moment he was almost out the door, the moment when he realised he was actually leaving for once and for all – and he had tried to tell Erik, tried to tell him that he’s sorry for being like this, sorry for not giving the proper goodbye they should have had, sorry for _everything,_  but he couldn’t. Not when Erik was looking at him like he wanted to throw Charles out the window and grab hold of him tightly at the same time.

He was so lost then, so damned confused about what he wanted from Erik and what Erik wanted from him and whether the Lehnsherrs would be glad he’s gone – a burden relieved – or whether they’d actually feel sadness as if they had lost one of their own, whether they considered Charles one of their own.

He had wished that Erik would  _say_ something, plead with him, beg him to stay with earnest blue-green eyes and firm hands, pleading because that’s where Charles belongs, did belong and always will – but it wasn’t like Erik to do that in the first place, and Charles was just being selfish. Looking for a reason to linger.

And yet, through all of that there was the niggling voice that told him he had to leave, leave now because his uncle is waiting outside – his _real_ life is waiting outside and he just…just had to go. Because he was Charles Xavier, long lost, now found.

So he had cut himself off before it was too late, breath stopping short and words catching – and he doesn’t dare meet Erik’s eyes as he turns and walks away, shutting the door so he won’t be tempted to look back.

Charles did what he thought he had to do; did what he thought was best. He’s not so sure anymore.

The board is heavy in his hands, a solid, comforting weight. It had been wrapped painstakingly, lest some bump or pothole on the roads inadvertently mar the beautiful wooden designs. After locating Hank and arranging for a custom-made wooden chess set for himself (that may or may not bear striking similarities with another certain set), Charles grabs the nearest scrap of parchment and scribbles something down, slipping it beneath the wrapping.

‘Here. All set,’ he gives the bulky package one last pat before sliding it towards Hank. ‘Please ensure its safe passage; it is for a…very dear friend of mine.’

Hank, who remembers this rectangular-shaped box very clearly – as it was the only thing Charles insisted that  _he_  himself must carry, all the way to his new sleeping quarters – was a little curious as to why something so precious to Charles would be sent away so soon, but knew better than to ask. He only nods with a reassuring smile as he closes the door behind him.

\--

The sky is a dull, murky grey – the wind howls through the trees and rain lashes angrily on the windowpanes, clawing to be let in.

Restless and irritable, Erik stomps into the library. After drifting aimlessly for approximately four days, listless and unwilling to engage in verbal conversation, the library drew him in, with its long windows, winding staircase, tidy shelves and warm orange light. It was Charles’ library, Charles’ heaven, he had told Erik not long ago, blue eyes twinkling as he burrowed further into his favourite armchair, winter sunlight streaming through the windows.  _Give me a good book and some tea, and I could possibly take up roots here._

Erik had snorted then, commenting on what a stupidly boring tree Charles would make, but settled down next to him anyway.

It could almost have been yesterday; Charles could still be sitting in a niche between bookshelves, convinced every single time that Erik would fail to locate him within thirty seconds. Most of the time Erik finds him sooner than that, but he is not wholly unkind. He usually lets Charles be for a few minutes, at most.

If he were more naïve, he might have pretended he just hadn’t found Charles yet.

The emptiness hits him with a pang once again, and Erik thinks that if he were struck hard enough, he’d  _echo._

With a sigh, he turns – and suddenly notices the empty space where the antique chessboard used to be, right by the fireplace. It had sat there for months, collecting dust – because firstly, he had never cared for chess and could not, for the life of him, fathom how Charles found it; and secondly, he could wrap Charles around his little finger. But although much neglected, he had forbade the maids to pack it away, as an unfinished game was always a promise, a comforting presence, constant and reassuring, like Charles had been with his brilliant blue eyes and soft, knowing looks –

And now the small mahogany table was empty and the two armchairs were too, a faint dusty outline reminding Erik exactly what is missing. Again.

He wants to laugh in spite of himself, because Charles probably knew he wouldn’t have noticed the absence immediately, if at all. It was so Charles, so like him in his sentimentality to squirrel away these things, these souvenirs – a fond memory, perhaps so he can look back and remember. Charles Xavier, way past middle-aged before he’s even twenty.

Charles would swat at him indignantly for making such a claim, a full, happy smile and laughing eyes that always betray his true thoughts – and Erik feels like he’s been sliced open again, jaggedly red and hurting, the aching emptiness shredding him from the inside.

He can’t go on like this for much further. It’d be irresponsible and completely immature to wallow in self-pity and to be angry at nothing in particular; he’s carried on for long enough. Erik wonders how soon it would be until his parents called a doctor to come in and have him looked at. He just wants to talk to Charles – see him, make sure he’s still real, still the same – and he can’t, he just can’t.

A soft rap on the doorframe announces the arrival of the pageboy.

He eyes Erik with mild apprehension. The servants must have been gossiping again. He awkwardly pushes a flat, rectangular package towards Erik, with a ‘arrived just then for you, master,’ and quickly backing away with a bow once it was safely in Erik’s hands.

Not giving the servants much thought, he examines the object with curiosity, slightly relieved for the distraction. It was quite heavy – very solid, in fact; and it also felt somewhat familiar. Erik wrinkles his nose in confusion, taking note of the painstaking way it has been wrapped and bound.

Something precious, then. Expressly for him, too.

There was no letter attached, no signature or trace of the sender’s identity.

Absentmindedly pulling the nearest chair from behind him, Erik sits down and carefully unwraps the twine and leather, just in case he accidentally breaks or scratches something.

For a moment, he blinks at the closed chessboard, flat and rectangular. Wondering why on earth anyone would want to send him another chess set –

‘Oh,’ he gasps as it dawns on him, laughter escaping together with a half fond, half distressed exhalation. ‘Oh Charles, what are you thinking?  _This_ is the first thing you do when you arrive?’

Maybe Charles did accidentally take the chessboard. Doubtful, since the board was in the library, quite a fair way from the rest of Charles’ possessions. Or maybe he felt guilty – a much likelier explanation, knowing Charles and his infuriating insecurity and constant worrying about rules and expectations and boundaries and responsibilities – Erik rolls his eyes at the thought.

He’s slightly disappointed, strangely, to have it back. It’s not like he’d use it anyway, especially not now. It would have been better if Charles possessed it, because then Erik can find a little solace in knowing that whenever Charles sees the carved mahogany and oak, he’ll at least think of Erik.

‘Snap out of it, will you?’ he mutters irritably to himself, gathering up the leather and twine to throw away. Erik stops when a something else is shifted and flutters out from the heap of packaging material, something that might have very possibly been a piece of paper. His hand reflexively reaches out, catching the object before it hit the floor.

In a script he could have identified in his sleep, there were only three words on this piece of wrinkled parchment, lettered clearly and carefully.

_Knight to B3._

Gently smoothing out the creases with his fingers, Erik could see Charles smiling to himself as he slips the little message in the folds of leather, tightly and deftly binding the package with twine.

An entire letter’s worth of sentiment expressed in less than three words. Charles could never stay angry with him for long.

A grin slowly forms on his face, the truest he’s had in days. Erik sits himself down on his armchair, and one by one, patiently sets out the pieces on the board.

He’ll find the ink and paper later.

\--

Charles wasn’t expecting much from it. It would be at least a month before his own chess set could be made available, and he is not so presumptuous to think that Erik will definitely sit himself down and humour Charles – like he had done a thousand times before – and play along.

But of course that doesn’t mean he’s not distracted by a constant, faint anxiety –  _what if Erik thinks I’m an idiot? What if he’s still cross with me?_ – and without a observant and firmly reassuring hand to shake him out of it, Charles only worries more.

It arrives less than a week later – Charles wasn’t counting, honest – in a rather small, suspiciously book-shaped package enclosed in paper. Hank watches on with a bemused expression as Charles unwraps it and his confusion morphs into an expression of fond affection.

‘Oh,’ he exclaims happily, carefully peeling a delicately preserved rose from the pages. ‘The pressed flowers, I remember those, I thought we lost them years ago –’

And that was when Charles fell completely silent. Hank cranes his neck. On the first page of the notebook, hidden under the pressed flower, was a small line of handwriting.

 

_Pawn to F6._

Hank watches with great curiosity, as Charles turns slightly pink, suddenly breaking into the most relieved and genuinely joyful smile that he had seen.

\--

To Charles’ surprise, it was Erik who initiated further contact shortly after their first game (in which he lost dismally) with two lines of hurriedly scratched writing – rushed out before he loses his nerve – and Charles smiles because it’s almost like he’s here, gaze flickering to Charles in anticipation, waiting for his reaction.

_That was the longest chess game in history._

_How have you been holding up?_

Charles thinks he sounds apologetic. He thinks about Erik sitting at his desk, at a loss for words, frowning at a blank piece of parchment as if it were refusing to help him with his enquiries. It makes him laugh.

_We’ll see if we can make the next one shorter._

_And I’ve been well, I suppose. It does depend on the definition._

 

Charles wanted to add  _it would have been much better were you here with me,_ but decides against it. He writes  _thankfully, no horse-riding yet_ instead.

The next message arrives from Erik, tucked between the straps on his riding boots. The only pair of shoes that he conveniently left behind him, with full intentions to never ride a horse again unless absolutely necessary.

_What a shame. Consider these shoes your back-up plan._

_Bishop to D4._

 

Charles hugs the clunky leather boots – newly polished, he notes – to his chest and laughs and  _laughs,_  especially when he realises this is the first time he can’t just reach out and cuff Erik, and knows that Erik knows this, too –

Hank probably thinks he’s gone mad.

\--

Conversation starts up slowly, but in due time. Both lonely and bewildered with phantom presences that linger by their sides, the letters quickly increase in length and number. Charles often tries to guess what Erik would be doing back in Lehnsherr estate at a particular time of day, and in turn Erik would try and imagine the cold, castle-like structure that Charles so often describes as Xavier House, haughty and imposing.

It’s somewhat comforting.

Erik hates English literature and complains about it often, especially now that Charles isn’t here to explain all the theories and the intricate plot of stories to him, since he’s never had the patience himself. Charles remarks playfully that by simply writing correspondence, Erik is improving his grasp of the English language. In retaliation, Erik informs Charles that without him or not, Shakespeare still bores him into a stupor, and only wishes he could have been there to witness the reaction – Charles loved Shakespeare and general literature almost to a fault, and will defend it at the drop of a hat.

As for Charles, algorithms and formulas hurt his head in the worst ways possible: he cannot  _stand_ arithmacy or mathematics or whatever the bloody hell Erik would like to call it. He always bemoans the fact that he can recite entire passages or scenes from plays, but fail to remember more than three complex formulas and their applications. That had always been Erik’s field of expertise, never his. But he’s been looking into psychology and that’s quite interesting; theories of how the human mind functions. Not that he’d need one to read Erik, Charles wants to tease, but can’t second-guess the reply he may receive, and thus withholds this and ends the letter with another command for a chess piece.

The remainder of winter passes in this fashion, the piles of letters on Charles’ desk slowly accumulating as the snowdrifts slowly melting into patches of grass and undergrowth and sharp, bright sunlight filters through the clouds. Eventually he finds a suitable, non-descript wooden box, complete with lock and key – steadfastly ignoring the comments Hank makes about  _love letters_.

\--

Erik had somehow made it a habit of his own to walk past Charles’ old room everyday – but he never dared to go in. (Every time he puts his fingers on the doorknob, something tears a little bit further in his chest.) Eventually, when he does, Charles’ latest letter in hand as a reminder that  _yes, Charles is still here_ , he feels eternally grateful that the maid hasn’t taken the sheets off the bed or the books off the shelves. It wasn’t something he had asked for, so perhaps it was of his parents doing. (It wasn’t.) There are still scraps of parchment and jars of ink lying on the table – even a stray ink blotter, surrounded by scratches; Charles does tend to get carelessly overenthusiastic when it comes to ink and paper.

When Charles gets really caught up in something, he’ll forget even food and sleep, emerging at odd times to spout half-snippets of sentences and theories animatedly, a smudge of ink on his nose. Erik only alerts him to it half the time – the other times, he simply reaches out with thumb and forefinger, also conveniently silencing Charles on another one of his enthusiastic ramblings.

Sitting by the bed, Erik feels like maybe Charles is lying behind him just a fraction out of his line of vision, hands clasped behind his head and staring at the ceiling, complaining about something or other like he always did – and then kicks himself mentally, because that thrice-damned romantic sentimentality of Charles must have somehow rubbed off on him.

Clouds chase each other, scudding across a periwinkle sky. The green is slowly creeping back in fingers and curls, breathing in the crisp spring air.

The chess games go on – Erik suddenly finds chess  _fascinating_  even if he keeps losing rather spectacularly. It just makes him more determined to win: poring over The Chess Player’s Pocket-Book and Manual of the Openings, a little book that Charles had uncovered somewhere long ago (once again, forgotten in the depths of the library) and insisted that he should read. Erik never bothered with it.

He squints at the typed words, the book a bit too small for his hands.

_‘One fact that the amateur player must know if he is to ever master the subtle art of chess is…’_

\--

The Duke requests his audience on a Thursday afternoon. Shows him a regal, delicately embossed letter of invitation.  
Charles tilts his head slightly, confused. ‘The Duke of Normandy?’

‘Yes! Rather prestigious event, too. And what better way to show off our charming, talented nephew?’ Duke Alexander must have intended to sound kind, but to Charles it was slightly off-putting and just edging on overbearing. He smiles anyway, accepting the compliment with a gracious nod.

‘Thank goodness you are a fine dancer, though.’ Alexander Xavier adds as an afterthought. ‘Don’t know what we would have done had you known nothing of it.’

Charles nods again, uncertain of how he should have reacted. Nodding seemed the safest option – he excused himself shortly after.

Later, he asks Hank what that might have meant.

‘Most likely they would’ve pretended you don’t exist,’ Hank translates with a laugh, much more comfortable around Charles now, their friendship growing steadily – especially after Hank had expressed a love of books, but confessed he could not read very well. (Needless to say, Charles did not pass up on the opportunity.)

‘Would they  _really_  have acted as such if I were a bad dancer?’ Charles seemed mildly horrified at the thought.

Hank grins at him toothily, leaning over to straighten his collar. ‘Ah, perchance they would have, young master, but thankfully we’ll never know.’

‘You’ll…be meeting that friend of yours there, won’t you?’ He adds with a sidelong glance. Charles mumbles with something that might have been agreement, refusing to meet his eyes.

That night, Charles then brings it up casually in his letter: about how there may or may not be this apparently well-known ball coming up and ah, not meaning to pry, might Erik and his parents be possibly thinking of attending?

If one could display nervousness through writing, Charles did – with the way his words seized up and shaped themselves to be chokingly formal and conventional. It happens because he’s worrying. Charles is always worrying about something or other, a habit that Erik often attempts to snap him out of, but has never quite been quashed –

Charles wonders if Erik’s changed, because Charles certainly has. He wonders what it would be like, should they meet at the ball. Erik most likely has done as much thinking as Charles has in their time apart, but Charles is unsure of  _what_ he has been thinking of – a little scared, even.  He knows it won’t be the same; that at least he won’t see Erik the same way he did before.

Charles has, as of late, discovered with considerable alarm that the more Erik isn’t there, the more Charles thinks of him.

It starts off bearably enough – the play of sunlight on Erik’s face, his change-colour eyes, a short bark of laughter and quick, rustling movements – but when Charles allows his mind to wander, the feeling sharpens and solidifies with an unspeakable kind of heat. He tries to distract himself, to divert his subconscious or to try and build up some sort of barrier, but his mental floodgates apparently had an everlasting grudge against him and his good sense.

Because when Charles lets himself think about it, he wants Erik,  _wants_  in a way that he really shouldn’t. Charles wants those long clever fingers, wants kisses like quicksilver and wildfire, wants to mould himself against Erik and re-learn every inch of him, inside and out; wants so badly that it burns straight through him and leaves him breathless.

Charles doesn’t let his mind wander often.

\--

‘Dearest,’ Marquise Lehnsherr says evenings later, during dinner. ‘The annual mid-spring ball is to be held early next week – our invitation arrived this afternoon.’

‘Oh? The one held by the Duke of Normandy, am I correct?’ Erik’s father chews thoughtfully, knife and fork clinking on his plate.

‘Indeed! Delightful event, that. It has been a while.’ She sighs a little dreamily, perhaps thinking of all the ball gowns she has not had a chance to wear.

‘We could have gone last spring,’ She continues, answering Erik’s baffled expression. ‘…but you had caught a chill a few days before and proceeded to spread it to the entire household, dear,’ He makes a face at her.

‘Well, I see no reason why we shouldn’t attend this year!’ Marquis Lehnsherr claps his hands together as if that settles the deal.

‘Besides,’ his mother adds lightly with a nod. ‘Perhaps the Xaviers shall be present, too.’

Erik goes still at this. Stares absently at his plate, fingers tracing the edges. Thankfully, his parents say no more on that subject – still too relieved that their son had returned to normal and that lost look had at last faded from his eyes.

Later, he finds Charles’ letter sitting on his desk and doesn’t even bother to find his pocketknife – tearing the envelope apart with his hands.

He traces the lines of elegant flowing script, a curl of slow anticipation combined with equal parts of nervousness and excitement igniting, sparks in his breathing.

_Perhaps you have received your invitation already. Should you decide to attend – and I will take the liberty to inform you that my uncle insisted on my presence at the event – we may have a chance to meet._

Erik knows that his reply will not arrive in time. But maybe it doesn’t need to.

\--

The hustle and whispers of conversation rises and falls, ebbs and flows. Like a wave, it washes over Charles as he watches the carriages roll in one by one. The evening sky is streaked with purples and reds, the winds chasing leaves across the orchards and courtyards. Laughing, chattering women in their pretty ruffled gowns that cinched at the waist; men regal and handsome in their best three piece suits, complete with tailcoat and high collars.

Charles lingers by his aunt’s side, peering around curiously. The Duchess strikes a stately figure, flowing purple gown and delicately curled hair, gloved hands toying absently with her lace fan as she chatted happily with her acquaintances. Charles has a mild headache. He had been introduced to so many people in the past half hour that his head is literally ringing – since apparently the long-lost heir of the Xavier line was quite the gossip around the neighbouring families. Dutifully, he had allowed himself to be subjected to hugs, pokes and prods, handshakes, congratulatory claps on the back; said not a single word in protest when his hair was ruffled, his cheek pinched a little too hard.

Dukes and duchesses, barons and earls and marquises, all stared at him with open curiosity. Very possibly wondering whether he could marry their daughters. Although not unkind, Charles feels pointedly scrutinised and cornered and incredibly uncomfortable with the attention received.

And, he can’t see any sign of the Lehnsherrs.

Erik hadn’t replied him – understandable, given the time constraints. He had hoped that they would come though, the thought a silvery thread in the back of his mind. Holding him still.

There is a rush of quiet sound and hushed conversation, distant violin music rising and falling. Candles flicker; crystal chandeliers cast a soft incandescent light, giving a softer edge to all that it touches.

He can feel many sets of eyes on him, a curious sort of awareness that has him fidgeting with his white, newly starched cuffs, a brush of fingers through his hair, self conscious and a little jittery. Charles isn’t used to this many people in one place, especially not when they’re all  _looking_  at him.

And so he smiles at them absently without making eye contact, and keeps by Duchess Alana Xavier’s side like the good nephew he is. Trying his best to avoid conversation, scanning the ballroom for a flash of familiarity, a sharp, wry smile and eyes like green sea-glass. Holds on to that silvery thread that might sound a little too much like hope.

Alana touches his arm lightly, half-smile on her face. Brown eyes searching. ‘Seen any girls you might like to dance with in a moment, Charles?’

Seeing his dumbstruck expression, she offered her own suggestions and pointed them discreetly out with the end of her purple lace fan.

 _Dance partner_  was what his aunt said, but Charles read  _potential wife_ in her eyes.

He suppresses a horrified flinch just in time.

‘Er, not really,’ he replies as carelessly as he could. ‘I’d be happy with any of your choices, though.’

Alana smiles at him approvingly. Vaguely pats his shoulder once, then gestures towards another nice girl – rich family, good connections. Charles misses Astrid Lehnsherr most in these moments, misses the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes when she laughs and the way she holds him tight, like the mother that he should have had; so full of warmth and affection.

He doesn’t get to think of much else when a bell chimes loudly, significantly – inviting the guests to the dance floor.

The crowds part neatly, eager-eyed boys shyly pursuing the girls they fancy; the older adults, parents and grandparents, retreating to converse and observe.

The crowd melts away, and suddenly, there he was.

Leaning against a marbled column like Erik had been there the whole time, arms folded across his chest and staring straight at him.

Time stops for Charles as his feet locks into the ground and he freezes in a dizzy mixture of shock, happiness, nervousness and a something else that he doesn’t want to put a name to. Erik might have had a ghost of a smile, as if he was waiting for Charles to see him all along.

Charles wants to walk over, to say hello or even smile, at the very least –  _move your face, damn it_  – but his aunt tugs at his hand impatiently as the crowds converged again, and in the next heartbeat Erik was gone.

Rolling his eyes briefly, annoyed at both Alana and Erik, Charles arranges his face in a suitably interested expression as she leads him over to a ‘valued friend’ of the family with the ‘most charming daughter’ who would be ‘most suited’ for him.

He nods distractedly, giving the girl a quick smile and the obligatory bow, nothing more. The first dance will be with her, he notes distantly; maybe even the second. Alana was smiling again, patting him encouragingly on the back. He smiles back reflexively, his mind far away.

In truth, Charles was a bit thrown. He had seen many expressions on Erik’s face in the years they had known each other – happiness, anger, sadness, frustration, amusement, bewilderment…almost every emotion that encompasses the human spectrum; but he had never seen that particular look in Erik’s eyes before. It was not the way one would look at an old friend, however long they had been apart. There was heat in that; sparks jumping like static electricity, a whisper of opportunity, of a distant, hopeful  _maybe_.

When the music starts, Charles already has the beginnings of a plan forming in the back of his mind to find Erik. But, first things first. He smiles beguilingly at the girl – who, to his satisfaction, blushes to the roots of her hair. He takes her hand gently and leads her to join the line of couples.

Firelight flickers and shadows stretch; the men and women bow to each other – the dance begins with a crescendo and the familiar music coaxes his feet to move like he always had, so many times before. Charles realises he didn’t even catch the name of this girl and feels a hint of guilt, but for the most part only internally expresses thanks to Marquis Lehnsherr for insisting on dancing lessons.

\--

Erik, on the other hand, had known where Charles was almost as soon as he walked through the doors. Always had that ability, Erik did, and it frustrated Charles to no end.

He stays out of sight; follows his parents around for a while as they make pleasantries and catch up with old friends. But his attention keeps drifting to Charles and eventually he does too; considerably amused by the look of claustrophobic alarm on Charles’ face as he was poked and prodded and had his cheek pinched by many, many grandmothers. Laughing quietly because Charles had always been a touch shy and was now internally pained by all the attention he was receiving, laughing because to someone that hadn’t known Charles for ten odd years, they’d think he was only flattered and enjoying himself.

Strange though, the way Charles’ eyes constantly scan the crowds of people, searching. Who was he looking for? Erik entertains himself in the thought that it might be him. Perhaps.

That thought flits and twists inside, shimmery and tenuous, a fragile strand of silver light.

Leaning on a marble balustrade, he waits for Charles to find him. The ball will officially commence soon and he has already secured the hand of a distant cousin, Raven, a fiery, strong willed girl who potentially hates attending dances even more than he does. Erik likes her.

He watches Charles, unruly mop of brown hair somewhat combed, a wan smile tucked in the corner of his mouth, eyes like a slice of summer sky. Pale fingers fidgeting, the black of his long tailcoat and the gold patterning making him look older, more like Charles Xavier the charming heir to a massive fortune than the Charles that he had once pushed into a lake, laughing and shoving at each other, rolling in the dewy green grass.

He spots Erik soon enough; and to Erik’s immense satisfaction, freezes solid. His mouth parts slightly in shock, blue eyes widen as a thousand thoughts flash past – except Erik could never read faces very well and was more distracted by the fire’s glow glancing off Charles’ cheekbones and the soft, gentle curves of brown hair, catching strands of gold in the candlelight.

\- and then a gloved hand reaches from the crowd to tug at Charles’ wrist, snapping his attention away. Erik decides it’s time to go.

He makes his way back to Raven just in time, bowing extravagantly as an apology and getting a light smack for his trouble. He grins at her wolfishly from the line of dancers, and she rolls her eyes at him with a swish of blonde curls. The music swells and he concentrates on remembering the steps, careful not to miss or accidentally tread on Raven.

Charles’ letter. He wanted to see Erik, wanted to meet him again. How, why and where he did not entail for obvious reasons – but simply seeing Charles had confirmed what Erik felt, curling and shifting restlessly even now. It also scares him beyond compare.

Raven’s slim arm finds his and he twirls her without thinking, stepping in time to the beat. Her brown eyes lightly amused, pretty mouth curling in a half-smirk.

Yes, Charles had always been the better dancer – but that doesn’t mean Erik was rubbish at it. He’s quite proficient, actually; breezes through two dances until impatience gets the best of him and he excuses himself rather hurriedly. Raven chuckles because she can see straight through him, and accepts his apology with a snap of her fan. Grateful, he escapes to the upper floors and on his way out the third dance starts, the couples changing partners and the conductor raising his arms, tapping his baton.

The ballroom floor stretches out beneath him, the rich mahogany floorboards and soaring walls, carved magnificently with floral designs. The dancers move in unison, the ladies’ dresses fan out like flowers as they turn and spin.

Erik stands on the balcony and watches Charles dance with a pretty girl wearing a creamy, ruffled dress that tapers attractively at her waist, pale skinned and thin, hair delicately arranged and held by strands of beads. She has beautiful dark eyes that shine in the candlelight and Erik thinks that maybe Charles likes her. Charles has every reason to like her – and why in the world wouldn’t she like him? They’d make a very handsome couple. The song fades and Charles sends her off with a fleeting kiss on the hand and a whispered something that makes her laugh.

It drops his stomach and turns his blood into ice water.

Erik turns away, breathes in the quiet chill that night brings. He thinks he saw Charles glance up, but doesn’t risk double-checking. The stars are scattered across the sky, diamonds on a sheet of black velvet. The moon is an opal mirror on the lake, silhouettes of trees whisper in the wind.

A rush of conversation and fading music alert him to the dance’s conclusion. And then, the sound of rustling clothing, of shoes against marbled floors not far from him. He jumps, startled. When Erik locates the source of noise, it was only a shadow, disappearing down a stairwell he hadn’t noticed before – into the darkness, away from the balcony.

He sees a flash of hair, black in the silvery moonlight. But he knows Charles, knows the way he walks and the shape of his silhouette. So Erik follows, silent and unseen. Sandstone and marble gradually give way to grass, moss and spindly tangles of vine. The stairway leads to a small courtyard, overgrown with ivy and most likely overlooked for a great many years. Tucked away like a secret. Charles always seemed to have a knack for uncovering lost, forgotten things.

And this time, it was Charles who was waiting for him.

Like familiar strangers who might have known each other once, they stare at each other, the air filled with hesitation.

‘Charles,’ he breathes, like he’s forgotten how to speak. Erik hasn’t heard that name out loud for months and discovers he likes the sound and the shape of the word, just like a whisper.

Charles is  _here_ , and allowed Erik to find him – Charles who used to chase him, tripping over his own feet, laughing with the wind blowing his floppy hair back when he knocks Erik down with a flying tackle; Charles who used to smile at him, squinting in the sunlight, his name shaped around a burst of laughter; Charles who is now standing opposite him with a strange look in his eyes and hands in his pockets, half hidden in the moonlight.

‘You’ve never been one for loud places, have you, Erik?’ His voice sounds a little off, a ripple in the silence. Blue eyes dyed dark by moonlight; a curve of a smile.

Erik makes a non-committal sound, unsure of how to act. Still staring at Charles, a little dumbfounded.

‘If you must know, I told Jane – lovely girl, by the way – that the dress was stunning and so was her dancing. And then,’ Charles says matter-of-factly, a smile catching on the corner of his mouth. ‘…I sent her back to her betrothed. Thomas, I think it was? Nice chap.’

‘But I didn’t ask,’ Erik says, astonished. Nonetheless, he feels the tangled seething knot in his stomach subside.

The smile quirks up a little. Charles laughs.

‘Well, do forgive me if I happen to have misread your burning curiosity and – dare I say, jealous – glowering at that unfortunate girl for something else.’

Erik gapes at him.

‘Come on, Erik, I could read your face ever since we were boys, did you really think – ’

He looks away, finding the surrounding undergrowth rather interesting.

‘I – I’m not jealous, you can go dance with whoever you wish.’ Erik ignores the disparaging look he knows was slanted his way. ‘I’m sure you’ll easily find a partner that takes your fancy…’

Footsteps, soft against the moss covered stones.

‘Ah, but I  _have_ , my dear Erik.’

Grinning, Charles extends his hand with an elegant bow. Almost close enough to touch. The other hand is folded behind his back: perfect posture for gentlemen on the dance floor, an invitation hidden behind a joke.

Erik’s heart does such a violent jolt that he almost falls back a few steps, managing to redeem himself by a reproachful hiss of the first thing that came to his mind.

‘D-don’t kiss my hand, I’m not a  _woman_.’

Windswept brown hair falling out of place as he tilts his head a fraction, the smile on Charles’ face grew wider.

‘Oh? Then where shall I kiss you?’

Charles’ tone was still that of a gentle, playful jibe, but the burning blue of his eyes told quite a different story. He had changed, Charles has; grown bolder in the months they had spent apart, more independent now that Erik wasn’t by his side – but he had also stayed the same, so painfully, achingly the same. Still the same uncoordinated boy who shrieks when he falls off a horse, the same boy who uses chess games to remind Erik he’s not quite alone. And, he still apparently reads Erik like an open book.

While Erik was trying to untangle his thoughts, Charles takes a few steps closer. Eyes alight with anticipation, a silvery outline in the moonlight.

‘Charles, what are you  _doing_  –’ Heart at his throat, Erik chokes his words out and stumbles backwards once again. A shadowy fear engulfs him, fear that Charles might be joking, and fear that their relationship was beyond repair.

Blue eyes remain on his, unfazed. ‘I missed you,’ Charles murmurs, low voice mingling with the night soaked air and the sound of faraway music.

 _Bad idea,_  Erik hears inside his head.  _Someone will find you._  He glances at the stairwell and the glow that emanates from above, the world of candlelit chandeliers and violin music.

‘We have time. No one can see us. I – I made sure of it.’ Charles seemed to hear his thoughts and gazes at him intently, burning blue.

‘Charles,’ he says as a sort of helpless defence, although he had forgotten why he was saying Charles’ name in the first place. Fingers curl in towards his palms, fighting the urge to reach out and touch the pale moonlit skin; fighting the white-hot burning, his breathing coming up short.

‘If you had not wanted this, Erik, you would have left a long time ago.’ His tone shifts, uncertainty colouring through, faltering.

Erik blinks. Charles has misread his silence, again. Erik wasn’t prepared for the sudden rush of fierce affection for Charles that crashed through him then, catching him offguard.  _Charles thought he didn’t feel the same –_ after everything, Charles is still the brilliant, kind, intelligent, marvellous and bloody insecure idiot that Erik had known all his life. The warmth blooms red and true, the dark shadowy fear ebbing away.

Charles gestures at the remaining space between them. A fingertip gently grazes his wrist.

‘See, you can even go now. I will do nothing to stop you.’

That sentence was a little too broken, the wry smile Charles gives him a little defeated. Expecting him to run, giving him the chance, just in case he was mistaken –

Always the perfect gentleman, Charles.

Mouth suddenly dry, the most Erik could do was stay, right where he was. His pulse racing, his conscience screaming at him to run, run and hide somewhere far away.

‘Charles, are you  _sure –_ ’  _This might actually break me,_ Erik thinks. His voice is shot to hell already and Charles is standing too close; breathing the same air, standing in the scissored half-light. Erik could count his eyelashes, each tipped with moon silver.

‘Yes,’ it comes as an exhale and Erik feels it rather than hears it, a faint brush of air on his skin.

If he starts, Erik’s not sure he could stop.

‘Wait, wait, just – Charles – wait,  _how long_ ,’ he demands breathlessly as Charles takes another half step, forcefully stilling his brain, willing his blood to slow down.

There is a thread of frustration in Charles’ voice. ‘Since we parted, a month, a year, ever since I could remember; god, Erik, does it really matter –’

And suddenly, it doesn’t.

It is Charles who finds himself slammed against a wall, breath knocked out of him in a gasp, eyes flying open.

Erik feels like his whole world had caught fire, his half-stuttered pulse fluttering, coming undone just by the mere sight of Charles so close and so willing – clear, pale eyes clouded and pupils blown wide, reckless and drunk on the proximity.

‘Tell me not to do this,’ Erik begs, his voice never so shredded before. Feels Charles’ shiver beneath his palms, caged between the wall and his arms; feels the heat seeping through him. ‘Tell me I can’t.’

‘Never,’ Charles breathes, hands coming up to frame Erik’s jaw, fingers gentle. Blue eyes never leaving him. ‘Never,’ he repeats fervently, tilting his head and pulling Erik in.

Erik had little experience in kissing, and even less knowledge on what it would be like. He imagined it might be like a flash of lightning, like suddenly colours were brighter and maybe a bit like falling in slow motion. Soft and flowery, like rose petals and dandelion fluff.

It wasn’t like that; wasn’t even close. Erik  _felt_  sparks, felt his skin grow too hot and the earth move underneath his feet, felt Charles’ quiet gasp and the hold on his neck tighten, fingers snared in his hair. He kisses Charles like he might die the next moment, like it would be wrong not to, like it would  _hurt_  not to. Erik kisses him like he can’t quite believe he can have this, but Charles makes a needy, desperate sound like he’s never heard before and scrabbles at his collar, pulling him closer.

Charles smells of ink and tea and old books tucked away in corners of shelves; tastes like what safety feels, crackling firelight and warm winter nights. The aching familiarity overwhelms him and fiery affection surges, a half-panicked love that claws at him and Erik has to break the kiss to re-learn how to breathe, pressing his forehead against Charles.

‘Don’t you dare, don’t you dare stop,’ Charles manages to get out in a thready, raw voice, flushed cheeks and too bright eyes, mouth a slick, bruised red. He sounds as wrecked as Erik feels and Erik just  _wants -_

And he sees no reason why he shouldn’t; so he doesn’t stop, follows the unsteady fingers that draws him back and gets his mouth on whatever skin he could reach, cursing the complicated layers of immaculate clothing that they can’t afford to ruin. The soft, startled noises that Charles makes twists and burns inside him, making his blood sing with need and knocks the breath out of his lungs.

Erik maps the long line of his neck, hands arcing the slope of his shoulders and the curve of his spine, curls an arm around and draws him in, chasing Charles’ fluttering pulse, taking him apart with tongue and teeth.

The half-choked moan Erik draws out he swallows instinctively and kisses Charles quiet, deep and sure. Charles responds just as fiercely, kissing back like he’s afraid he’ll be told to stop, hands at the nape of Erik’s neck, tugging at his coat, back arching in for closer, for  _more,_ like Erik never thought he would.

‘Finally,’ Charles exhales because he can read Erik’s mind, and smiles against his mouth. Touches him tenderly, brushing at the delicate skin behind his ear. A thumb grazes his cheek and Charles holds him still as he leans in, tongue flicking against the shear of his teeth and kisses him once, twice, three times – and it feels like a promise. Charles cradles his face like he just can’t bring himself to let go; like he doesn’t even remember how to.

The nearest belltower tolls, a reminder that time is passing, ringing through the night. In a heartbeat, Erik remembers where he is with a sickening jolt; more importantly, he remembers who Charles is,  _where_  Charles is now and pure panic floods him.

 

‘Charles – I can’t, we can’t, especially not you, and you are fully aware, I  _know_  you are,  _why_  did you –’

 

The words tumble out as he falls backwards, breaking contact, tripping over his own feet. Scared out of his mind, scared for himself and for Charles, terrified of being found out.

He needs to leave, even if it’s too late. Straightens up, tries to breathe normally, fingers smoothing his clothes –

The crestfallen, broken look in Charles’ eyes hits him like a slap in the face. In a flash he remembers he’s not the only one who would be torn by this – destroyed, even.

Erik thinks about turning and walking away, fighting all every single nerve in his body that screams to kiss Charles again, to throw caution to the wind and press Charles against that wall, kiss him hard enough to bruise; mark him so everyone can see –

‘Erik.’ Charles calls for him, softly breaking the silence. He stops without a second thought, because Erik never could have refused anything that Charles asked of him.

Bright in the moonlight, Charles looks at him,  _really_  looks at him and asks, with a quaver in his voice –

‘Do you love me?’

The question takes his breath away. Erik feels open, vulnerable and scared, left defenceless. Charles is staring at him like nothing else deserves his attention, mouth a swollen red, truly well-kissed and taken to pieces; hair a complete mess, tattered breathing. Because of Erik; because Charles had let him. That fierce, protective affection surges up within him again and gives him enough strength to speak.

‘If – if we were not who we are, if we even had a chance –’  _then I would love you the way you deserve to be._

‘So you would love me then, if we were no one? You say that you would love me then?’ His voice rings through the darkness, growing steadier by the second. Charles was always clueless where it mattered most, and Erik loves him for it; loves him so much in this hidden moon-soaked, silver courtyard that he’s dizzy with it.

‘Responsibilities, Charles, you said yourself – obligations, our families – ’ He tries for decency anyway, for both their sakes.

‘No one needs to know, Erik. Please…please just come back here.’ Charles’ fingers twitch like he wants to walk forwards and pull Erik forwards himself, shoulders restless like he’s missing the contact and the warmth, unused to standing on his own.

Erik is hesitant and still a bit disbelieving but Charles has the brightest shard of hope in his eyes that hurts to think about and so he crosses the distance in quick strides, hands meeting Charles’ halfway. Because there could have been no other way, no other person.

‘I love you already. Always have.’ Erik says it because he means it, because he thought Charles would have known all along.

‘Sorry,’ his voice drops to a whisper, curving slightly to mould himself around Charles. ‘I frightened you.’

Charles laughs weakly, hiding his face in the Erik’s shoulder. Shaking a little as hands grab the edges of his coat and yank him closer – just in case Erik changes his mind.

‘We’ll meet again, I promise.’ He hears himself start to speak, fingers carding through Charles’ hair like now that he’d been given permission, he can’t bear to stop. ‘We can sort this out – I can’t, I cannot imagine what I will do otherwise.’

‘Can not or will not?’ A quiet muffled question against his shoulder.

He allows himself a smile. ‘You’ve always been the one with immaculate English, Charles. Shouldn’t you know?’

Charles only sighs in answer, arms tightening around him.

He noses Charles’ hairline, chestnut hair tickling his face. Peppers kisses, soft and quiet like secrets shared. Closes his eyes and breathes in the warm scent of books, ink, woodsmoke and of coming home at last.

Silver falls from the sky and turns the marble into moonstones, reflecting the flecks of diamond in the inky night. Leaves dark like crow feathers, rustling in the wind. And not another word was spoken.

-

 

**Author's Note:**

> for those who want a part 2: i literally have no idea where to go with this so SEND ME SUGGESTIONS PLZ


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